


Christmas Day: There Will Come Snowfall

by suqua (cwsunrise)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwsunrise/pseuds/suqua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Day at 221B Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Day: There Will Come Snowfall

**Author's Note:**

> Written back in mid-October, this is inspired by and more or less imitates the short story August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains by Ray Bradbury. This was a personal challenge and I liked the end result, so I am sharing it.

In the sitting room, the skull watched. Gaping eye sockets, peering into the empty room with a smug curl to it's jawline. A velvety red pointed hat, trimmed with white, sat upon it. There is a tiny, silver tinsel tree in the corner of the room that has a smattering of colorful boxes placed around it. The telly is on, a peppy reporter beams at the camera. _"Good morning, you’re watching the 8 o’clock news!"_

In the kitchen, the table is cluttered with equipment that occupies every inch of the surface, there are ten test tubes half-full of bright blue liquids clamped to metal bases, six petri dishes with bright, fluorescent green mold inside aligned on the edge, and two dirty crucibles sitting on metal ring stands directly over a pair of unplugged Bunsen burners.

 _"Today is December 25th,"_ said the peppy reporter on the telly, _"in London. Today is Christmas Day, and of course tomorrow is Boxing Day."_

Somewhere in the floorboards upstairs, the wood briefly groaned and then there was only the voice from the telly again. 

  
_"All right, it’s now 8:05, kids, best get started on those presents if you haven’t already."_   


But no doors squeaked open, the third stair down from the upstairs bedroom did not creak, the peppy reporter’s laugh still went unnoticed and 221B continued to sit. It was snowing outside. The postman had Christmas with his family, so the mailbox was empty. The snow fell and pressed against the house, leaving wet clumps clinging to the edges of the windowpane.

Outside, a car slid carefully down the street and then stopped in front of the deli shop next door. After a moment, it pulled away with a disappointed lurch.

At eight-thirty, the floorboards upstairs creaked again and there was a muffled groan. A blanket was moved, pulled down until there was a chill from the winter air piercing the warmth and a quiet question was asked. There was a press of warm limbs and the chill disappeared briefly.

 _"Nine-fifteen,"_  called the peppy reporter, _"Martha has Chef Harold who-"_

From the upstairs bedroom, the consulting detective ambles downstairs and the third stair down whines softly under his heavy foot. The sitting room had a sudden aura with him inside of it, a bit glum from the frown on his face. He dropped onto the couch, his mouth twisting into a striking expression of displeasure, he curled his feet underneath his body to avoid the icy floor, glancing sideways without turning his head at the colorful boxes by the tree. Then, the army doctor enters the room and his eyes brighten significantly and his chin raises, gaze travels far from the gifts. The army doctor strides over to the tree and immediately fetches him a bright green box. The consulting detective tries not to look too pleased. (And fails, judging by the army doctor’s smile.)

 _Ten o’clock._  The sun came out a bit and warmed the snowy building. 221B sat on Baker Street surrounded by white and Christmas. This was the only building not overly decorated for the holidays. But at night, tiny multi-colored light bulbs lit up all the windows and over the fireplace at the insistence of the landlady.

  
_Ten-fifteen._  A black car pulls up and the government strides from the vehicle, bringing the consulting detective’s cheerful mood to a grinding halt. The apartment is filled with the sound of scratchy Christmas carols on an abused violin until their ears start to ache. The army doctor makes a plea and the screeching stops, the consulting detective hangs up his bow. The government merely smiles and continues exchanging pleasantries for precisely fifteen minutes before the black car is pulling away carefully, down the snowy road, the government expected elsewhere. The gift he left behind is standing on the arm of the chair he’d been sitting in, a portrait of two boys separated by a few years. They are standing stock-still in front of a tall green tree, one with a frozen smile and the other frowning with watery eyes. 

  


It remains on the chair until the sound of the car pulling away reaches the window, the consulting detective drops it into the waste bin. The army doctor retrieves it.

  


A delicate knock on the door and a soft warning noise announces the landlady’s arrival. 

  


Until now, she’d been preparing a lovely breakfast downstairs as quietly as a mouse. She asks, “Are you two boys decent?” and, upon their assured answer, had strode in with her gift and left it on the only available place, the small portion of counter space left and then went off for her sister-in-law’s holiday party. 

  


221B quivered at the sound of a few cars outside. If one drove by, it seemed to glare, the pair windows on the second floor facing the street formed an evil set of eyes. The cars seemed to drive away a bit faster! No, no one must disturb the consulting detective and the army doctor!

  


221B was an altar, with two persons standing beneath it gazing into each other’s eyes, one tall and one not-quite-so-tall,  touching fingers to fingers as they exchange gold rings, kissing gently beneath the mistletoe, utterly married. But soon they parted, but only a foot or so apart, in order to dish out their meal, the tender moment lingered in the air.

  


  
_Twelve noon._   


  


The army doctor complained, shivering in the new snowfall, waiting on the front porch.

  


The consulting detective recognized his impatience and buttoned his jacket. The jacket is immediately covered in tiny snowflakes, much like the army doctor’s head, the consulting detective ruffles his hair and his mouth spreads smugly at the doctor’s grunt of annoyance. They track footprints in the snow as they walk down Baker Street away from 221B. 

  


In the kitchen, the test tubes are shiny and alone once again. The sitting room is quiet, the peppy reporter has been silenced. The home is quiet, all of 221B is still, and Baker Street takes a moment to rest. The snow falls. On the rooftop lives a cat, which has watched Baker Street for a long time, now snugly sleeping inside of a little nook of the building that is curiously warm. The cat sleeps away the day, unaware of the holiday.

  


221B watches Baker Street, it’s residents are gone. Even the landlady, the house is so quiet. There is nothing but floating dust particles in the air, glittering in the faint bit of light that reflects off of the clouds in the sky. A window lay open in one bedroom of 221B, the one not-upstairs, the forgotten and unused bedroom. It allows in snow, a tiny damp patch is on the desk where a perfectly useless sheet of paper soaks up the snowmelt. The bed is made, there is a forgotten suit jacket with tags still on it lying across a desk chair.

_"Two o’clock,"_ cries an angry voice. _"Utterly pissed at two o-bloody fucking-clock on Christmas Day!’"_

Angrily slamming 221B's front door open, the army doctor removes his jacket and throws it with such force it slaps wetly against the wall before hitting the floor.

_Two-fifteen._

The consulting detective holds the army doctor close as his shoulders tremble.

On the army doctor’s cell phone, an apologetic message lights up the screen and it makes a trilling sound that is promptly ignored.

_Two thirty-five._

Clothing is thrown upon the floor. A crumpled jumper with a damp hem is thrown down first, followed by a dark purple button-up, hushed voices pressed together. Music is playing.

But they only hold each other close, warm skin to skin, there are muffled giggles against a pale neck and the blinking cell phone untouched.

At four o-clock, the clothes are pulled on, some on the wrong bodies and again there is laughter ringing in the air of 221B.

 

\--- 

 

_Four-thirty._

The burner on the stove glowed red. 

Food started to take shape: a roast chicken, stuffing, gravy, potatoes, redcurrant jelly, a Christmas pudding all being brought to life by the army doctor. The food was gorgeous. They sat at the dining room table, which has been cleared quickly and insistingly for the occasion. The colored test tubes sit forlornly on the floor in the corner, more important things thrust into cupboards or wherever there is room. The table is soon set like a scene from a family film.

The army doctor comments on feeling a cold draft and the consulting detective discovers the melting puddle of snow on the desk and shut the window but says not a word to the army doctor. And then they are sitting, voices laughing and wine being poured. Their dinner is impossibly delicious, the consulting detective eating more than he might in weeks. There was the clattering sound every now and then of a fork sliding across the bottom of the plate and there was something warm, alive and happy in the air. The occasional kiss over the table.

  


It was not their planned Christmas dinner but it was the one they needed.

 

\---

  


  


  
_Five-thirty._  The consulting detective goes to draw a bath. 

_Six o’clock._ The dinner dishes are all cleaned in hot, soapy water with the occasional clink. The consulting detective emerges damp from the bath to dry dishes just at the time when there wasn’t any room left on the drying rack, and they stand in a mutual, appreciated quiet, clean dishes filling the shelves. 

 _Seven, eight o’clock._  The telly is back on, the army doctor and the consulting detective settled in to watch the Christmas specials of their favorite shows that had started recording during dinner. 

  
_Nine o’clock._  They are walking back up the stairs, the third step from the top squeaks twice in quick succession, warm new pajamas pulled onto the army doctor and both sliding under the covers. 

  


  
_Nine-five._  The consulting detective’s lips:

  


"John, I’ve a poem for you."

  


The army doctor’s brows rose a bit, watching the consulting detective from the small space between them.

The consulting detective quirked his lips, "Considering the use of  Polaris  and my history with stars and astrology, I think it quite fitting," He shuts his eyes and recalled it from memory. "John Keats, as I recall you know of his work...

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art —

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —

No — yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft swell and fall,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever — or else swoon to death."

The army doctor quickly pulled the consulting detective toward him and their lips pressed together in a bruising kiss. The poem hung in the air, the final pair of lines leaving a warm feeling in the army doctor’s heart that was bittersweet.

At ten o'clock 221B began to quiet.

The army doctor curled against the consulting detective. A single curl of his hair touched onto the consulting detective's chin. The consulting detective breathed, shifted, and the lock of hair fell in with the rest. The room was cold but under their thick comforter it was warm.

"John," whispered the consulting detective. His long fingers encircled the army doctor's waist, they were pressed close, legs tangled. But the army doctor shifted, eyes opening, looking, knowing the consulting detective's worries without needing to see his face as he urgently spoke the army doctor's name: "John...John!"

221B tried to be a good home. It kept it's residents warm and watched over them carefully, worried when they fought or didn't come home. 

221B now was mostly still and silent save the sound of breath mingling as the army doctor and consulting detective were wound together. While their limbs were locked, the warmth of the bed kept them safe, snow began to fall thickly outside. And they kissed in the darkness. 

  


But it was dark. In the cavern of blankets, there were whispered things and chuckles. There was shifting, until one was pulled over the other: the army doctor draped across the consulting detective.

The army doctor sighed. His voice was low when he asked the consulting detective a question, his mouth being met with another, buttons being slid from their holes.

Now they pressed together in the bed.

And then, pajamas slipped away, minutes after being pulled on.

Crushing the breath of air out from between them, their skin became hotter with their mouths slanted together with a heated sigh.

The consulting detective pulled away, daring to reach out a hand into the chill for necessities before sliding back in with goosebumps rising on his arm. Now there was giggling again, a curse against the busted heater. 

But the consulting detective was clever. He knew a way to keep warm and the army doctor giggled, but that laughter was pulled from his lips in a gasp. Slick fingers! The army doctor's groans were low, panting against the consulting detective's flushed throat. 

The heat pressing into the army doctor's body caused an ache that made his heart throb in his chest.

The army doctor shuddered, the blanket slipped, the chill penetrated the heat bubble they'd made of the blankets as the consulting detective's fingers and tongue unwound him utterly, baring his most wild and desperate instincts. He drew from the army doctor a voice that no one else was permitted to hear, and he smirked.   _Jesus, that's-! God! Fuck, Sherlock!_  Heat tingled throughout the army doctor's body. His voice continued to moan spectacularly _God, Christ, Sherlock, fuck,_ in an endless cycle of pleads and exclamations. And his voice began to get lower, even a bit quieter as he bit onto his knuckle. One, two, three, and the consulting detective kissed onto the army doctor's wrist. 

From downstairs, the flat was still save the occasional scrape of the floorboards from upstairs.

The army doctor cried out, the sound piercing the silence of the flat. In a sudden instant, they were the only sound in the entire building. Nothing else, not a whine of electricity nor the drip of a sink could be heard. The only thing was the muffled voices, and the sound of two bodies moving together. There were thousands of sensations for the army doctor and the consulting detective, each more focused on the other in that moment than they could possibly have been in their entire lives. Their movements became frantic, desperate, lips pressing against available skin. With a singular momentum there was a powerful crescendo and suddenly their finale was reached like a blinding, brilliant light! And then there was one rumbling voice and the sweet touch of fingers, the poem spilled from the consulting detective lips again but the army doctor quieted him before he could reach those final lines again. 

221B was quiet again, save the near-silent conversation in the bed of the consulting detective and the army doctor, the barest of movements. 

In the kitchen, the dishes sat clean in the cupboards. There were empty containers in the waste that had been from their dinner, the chicken's plastic packaging and the can for the jelly sat in the recycling. Their living room was lit only by the street lamp outside. A circular shadow cast from the skull toward the corners of the mantel, the knife embedded into it. The occasional blinking of a laptop's power light lit up a corner of the room. 

A crush of lips. The consulting detective pressing his forehead to the army doctor’s. They watch each other through their eyelashes for a moment before their eyes slide closed. Tangled legs, hands held, mingling breath as they are wrapped together mostly underneath the thick blankets. 

Love and silence. A great quantity of love.

The nighttime isn’t visible through the window, the sky obscured by dark but the street lamp is bright and the shutters keep most of it out. Among the snow, there is a slowly disappearing blue scarf. The scarf is tattered slightly at one end, soaked with a bit of alcohol and forgotten on this Christmas day. The newspapers it lies beside announce: 

_"Today is December 25th, Christmas Day..."_

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Sherlock recites is Bright Star by John Keats. It was a bit difficult to locate a fitting poem for the story, but I did my best!
> 
> Happy Holidays!


End file.
